


The torments and very much avoidable melancholy of Isamu Fuwa

by antheeia



Category: Kamen Rider Zero-One
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Humiliation kink, Lap Sex, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Praise Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/antheeia
Summary: Fuwa is supposed to keep a discreet eye on President Amatsu. He is suspicious, but he definitely doesn't expect what he finds when he opens the office door of Zaia's President.
Relationships: Amatsu Gai/Hiden Aruto, Fuwa Isamu/Hiden Aruto
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34





	The torments and very much avoidable melancholy of Isamu Fuwa

**Author's Note:**

> Technically written and set between episode 18 and episode 19.  
> Because I was horny for Gai Amatsu.

( Isamu Fuwa )

Isamu Fuwa was sure there was something suspicious about Gai Amatsu, the young CEO of Zaia Enterprise. He had all the more reason to believe it now, based on Yua’s enigmatic confession, her whole deal about being forced to betray him. Soon after telling him all that, she wasn’t working with A.I.M.S. anymore, and at first, Fuwa had found himself wondering why that meant that she would be working against him. Zaia Enterprise had no hand in that whole Humagear business — or did it?

Fuwa did not understand right away. He had a lot of questions and not many answers. He wasn’t a detective and, between him and Yua, she’d always been the brains — he found himself a bit lost without her, although he would never admit to it in front of her (or anyone else, for that matter).

But Fuwa was a man of action, and as such he only really understood things when he tried to do something about them. In fact, when he tried to confront Yua, he understood right away just how fishy Zaia Enterprise and President Amatsu were.

To be honest, after fighting against him in that ridiculous — and unfairly strong — suit, Fuwa was pretty convinced that Gai Amatsu was kind of a lunatic.

A lunatic with a lot of power, and therefore, a dangerous one.

He had no proof, however. But, with the escalation of the Magia situation (Humagears turning rogue without being hacked? People turning into Magia? Fuwa was starting to lose track of it all), and Horobi’s tight-lipped unhelpfulness, it wasn’t too hard to convince A.I.M.S. that keeping an eye on President Amatsu was necessary. After all, they’d watched Hiden Intelligence and its CEO very closely since the start, and hadn’t really found anything noteworthy, so maybe they weren’t the problem.

After all, Fuwa thought, Aruto — President Hiden, that was — didn’t really seem capable of being malicious. He was so naive it seemed fake — and yet, after all these months, Fuwa had to admit the possibility that someone could be _that simple_.

Gai Amatsu, on the other hand, was everything but simple.

He was extremely ostentatious, ridiculously overconfident and outrageously lucky. In short, he was the most annoying, most intolerable asshole Fuwa had ever met. It didn’t help that he was filthy rich.

Fuwa thought about all that while he stood, maybe a bit less stealthily than he should have, in the corridor of the top floor of the Zaia Enterprise headquarters.

Technically, he was not allowed to be there.

Fuwa was supposed to keep a discreet eye on President Amatsu. That entailed following him around when he moved, but not necessarily being in the same room, or building, as he was — unless that was a public space. But Amatsu had been shut in his own office since that morning, and Fuwa was getting seriously bored and increasingly suspicious.

Sure, there was nothing suspicious about someone working in their office the whole day, nor about meeting up with the CEO of the company they had made a takeover bid to purchase. And managing a tech company (or two) was not an act of terrorism — unless you considered the tremendous influence and almost complete control that Hiden Intelligence and Zaia Enterprise had, over the every-day life and private information of the whole Japanese population, to be a form of terrorism.

As Fuwa did.

Hence, Amatsu was suspicious. And who knew what he could be doing in there? He could be planning to hack some Humagears himself, he could be repairing _other_ terrorists, he could be designing another overpowered suit. Aruto Hiden had visited, too — Fuwa had seen him walk in and overheard him saying to the front desk secretary that he had an appointment with President Amatsu. That had been almost one hour earlier; Aruto hadn’t come out yet, and that whole thing had only made Fuwa more restless. He was starting to pace.

Of course that — and not the boredom — was why Fuwa snuck inside the Zaia headquarters instead of wearing out the soles of his shoes on the asphalt outside.

He felt proud of the fact that he’d managed to sneak past security on the ground floor with a simple distraction, that he’d been stealthy enough to get inside the elevator alone and go straight to the top floor without attracting any attention. So proud, in fact, that it took him a long quarter of an hour to start wondering if it wasn’t strange that no one seemed to be on that floor. There were no other offices on it (and that much Fuwa expected), but there was also no security, no one walking the corridors, no employees going to the boss’s office or coming from it. There was nothing, really, and Fuwa would have thought he’d arrived on an unused floor, if he hadn’t seen the plaque on Amatsu’s office door.

However, Amatsu might also not be there. Maybe he’d left from the back door hours before; maybe he’d fooled Fuwa and now he was somewhere else entirely. Fuwa could not allow that.

So, to make sure he hadn’t been deceived, he walked to the office. Slowly, as silently as he could, he put one foot after the other on the light and clean carpet. He approached the sleek door and put an ear to it, discreetly.

He recognised the voices inside right away. Amatsu, loud and clear even through the door, and then, after several seconds of silence, another voice that unmistakably belonged to Aruto — despite its unusually timid tone.

Fuwa should have been reassured — voices were what he had hoped to hear from inside — but what they said only worried him more.

“You’ll have to beg for it, Hiden,” said Amatsu’s irritating, constantly mocking, voice. “Beg properly and I’ll consider.”

“Please, President Amatsu.” Aruto’s voice was pleading, and breathy as if he’d just run a marathon. Or fought.

Without thinking further, Fuwa opened the door.

♝♔♝

( Aruto Hiden )

Aruto came because he was invited.

Frustration had nothing to do with it, no matter how many times Amatsu would mock him for it. Just because he was young, inexperienced, and — admittedly — frustrated with his job, and everything else that was going on in his life; just because Gai Amatsu was a successful, smart and lucky businessman, one apparently so handsome he was immune to ageing; just because Aruto had thought he was good at one thing, fighting with the Zero-One driver, and now it turned out that Gai Amatsu was better even in that regard; just because of all that, didn’t mean Aruto had to go crawling to him, begging for help or advice or money or anything else.

“What should I do?” Aruto sighed, blowing on the tea to cool it down. That earned him a single eyebrow raised over Amatsu’s own teacup, but he was unsure if it was because of the blowing or because of the question.

“My advice is to give up,” Amatsu replied, after sipping that burning hot tea like it was only lukewarm. “Leave Hiden Intelligence to me: I’ll deal with all its problems for you.”

Aruto almost spewed out the tea — both because he was pretty sure it had thoroughly burned his whole mouth, and because of that absurd answer. “You would give up?” he said, half-chewing his prickling tongue.

President Amatsu put both feet on the ground, leaning forward in the posh armchair. The tips of his fingers met, and he looked at Aruto with what could only be described as a condescending look. “ _I_ wouldn’t. But I have the skills to deal with this situation. We’re talking about you.”

“I have skills, too!”

Amatsu smirked. “I do not doubt that,” he said, and Aruto couldn’t really vouch for his honesty. “But yours are not the right talents for what you are called to do.”

Before Amatsu’s smile had reached his cheeks, Aruto realised he was as red as the armchair he was sitting on, and it wasn’t because of newfound chameleonic abilities. His face burned from the neck to the tips of his ears, because he realised what Amatsu was probably referring to.

When Izu was with him, staring contests were easier. For her sake, he might even have won one, if it meant he wouldn’t have to explain, to Izu of all people, why he was averting his gaze in embarrassment. But Izu wasn’t with him, and holding President Amatsu’s gaze had become a very demanding task in a matter of seconds.

Gai Amatsu didn’t break eye contact, ever. Especially not with Aruto. Hell, that stubborn man kept his gaze firm even when he drank his tea.

Aruto was about to look away — to give up, ready for the teasing that would have surely followed — but he was saved by the ring of a smartphone. More precisely, as it was clear when both their heads turned towards the source of the sound, Amatsu’s smartwatch.

The corner of Amatsu’s mouth twitched upwards. “If you would excuse me,” he said, with no emotion in his voice. Then, he pressed a finger on the small screen of the watch and observed the hologram that popped up. He looked every inch the successful businessman that he was — an aura Aruto had never been able to project, not even slightly. Whatever President Amatsu was staring at (the privacy options of the hologram didn’t seem to allow for spectators, willing or unwilling), it kept his attention focused. Maybe it was something serious. It wasn’t another Magia, that was sure, or Aruto would have gotten a call, too. No, it probably had something to do with Zaia. It was surely work.

Gai Amatsu must be a very busy man.

That was obvious, of course, but Aruto felt like he was realising the weight of it only now. How many hours he’d stolen of Amatsu’s precious time, and how Zaia’s President had always patiently, graciously entertained him; how he’d kept calling Aruto back, inviting him to spend time together.

When the hologram dissolved, Aruto caught a cold expression on Amatsu’s face — his jaw clenched, like it did when he disliked something, or someone.

Aruto stood up.

He bowed deeply because, despite it all, he believed President Amatsu to be deserving of respect. He might be misguided, at times, but Aruto was sure he had the best intentions.

He bowed his farewell, because he could tell when someone was busy.

“I apologise for keeping you, President Amatsu,” he said. His leg bumped against the low table, and drops of tea spilled out of his almost-untouched cup. He raised his gaze, flush spreading on his face faster than his apologetic smile. Why did he have to be so clumsy?

The expression on Amatsu’s face washed over him like water from a warm shower, and then disappeared, as if it had never existed, leaving him shivering in the winter cold. “You didn’t like your tea?” More than a question, it sounded like an observation. Completely unconnected, or maybe a gentle reminder that he was being rude.

Aruto took the small cup in both hands and took a big sip from it. It burned his mouth and all its way down his throat. Aruto gulped it down without protest, then nodded.

“It was as good as ever, thank you. I’ll be going now.” He talked quickly, pronouncing the whole phrase as if it were a single word — almost as if he was the one busy and therefore in a hurry to go. He realised it might have sounded rude, but he also feared he would lose every wish to leave, if he let that meeting degenerate as most of the others had.

“Already?”

Amatsu took another elegant sip from his own cup. There was an amused light in the back of his eyes. Amatsu often had that expression — he was too polite to ever actually erupt in mocking laughter, but Aruto noticed anyway. It made something in his chest stir. He felt as if he had made a fool of himself.

“You don’t have to keep tolerating my presence just because of Gramps,” he muttered, head still bowed. He hoped to be dismissed soon, because he knew that the way his breath hitched in his chest was just a taste of the way his thoughts would hiccup all the wrong ways if he let Gai Amatsu’s words get to him.

Amatsu, still sitting in the armchair, reached for him. He took Aruto’s chin between index and thumb and tilted it upwards. Aruto complied, raising his face and meeting the other’s dark eyes, much closer than he expected them to be. His arms, resting by his sides, suddenly felt limp, as all the blood pooled in his lower abdomen. 

“If you have _one_ skill, Aruto Hiden,” murmured Amatsu, studying his face as if it was the first time, “it’s being extremely tolerable.” It wasn’t the first time they were seeing each other from up close, and it wasn’t the first time Aruto found himself wondering how Gai’s lips tasted. “When you put your heart into it, at least,” Amatsu added dismissively, his fingers dancing on the underside of Aruto’s chin. He stood, pulling Aruto’s face up and making him stand properly, as well. He touched his smartwatch’s screen a couple of times, and the room changed.

Around them, the tearoom’s furniture disappeared, and a smaller, cozy office in very light colours took its place. The walls looked closer, but there was a large window behind the black desk, and beyond it, or inside it, the hologram projected a tropical sea view.

Aruto made one step towards the fake window, marvelling at the complexity of the illusion.

Behind him, Amatsu sighed softly. “I thought you’d learned by now, Hiden.”

Aruto felt him step closer, filling the space he’d put between them and then some more. He felt Gai’s hand comb through the hair at the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes, and he could still see the light of the sea view through his eyelids.

“Learned what?” he asked, trying not to lean into the touch.

“The nature of our encounters,” Amatsu whispered in his ear — his lips barely a breath away.

Aruto knew it always ended like that, and no, he never learned. He always tried to escape. Luckily, his teachers had always been more or less patient.

♝♔♝

( Aruto Hiden )

Gai Amatsu had a heavenly smell.

With his face between Amatsu’s legs, throat gagging on his cock and nose buried in the hair at its base, that was Aruto’s only clear thought. Every part of Amatsu’s skin had the overpowering, spicy smell that made Aruto’s head spin.

Gai’s fingers yanked at his hair, pulling his head back, and Aruto let himself be guided. No matter how many times that voice would praise him, he knew he wasn’t experienced enough, nor good enough, to do a good job on his own. Not yet, at least.

Aruto breathed in deeply as soon as his airways were free enough. His face was wet with his own drool, which he could feel dripping down his chin, soaking his hoodie, falling in thick drops on his trousers. He didn’t move his hands to wipe any of it away, however — he kept them in place, on his thighs, just like President Amatsu had told him to.

Aruto was fully dressed, and yet shivering. His clothes felt constricting and tight, and his whole body trembled in anticipation. He wanted praise, he wanted to be touched, he wanted Gai’s warm body all over him, he wanted to be taken and used. The first time he and Amatsu had done it, he wasn’t sure if he’d truly liked it — but in a matter of weeks it had become an irresistible means of escape from the dread of his own problems.

A thin thread of saliva stretched in the short space between Aruto’s lips and the tip of Gai’s cock, reflecting a sparkle of artificial light from the window. Amatsu stood over him, leaning against the desk; he was still fully dressed — only his white trousers were open to bare his erection. Aruto had never seen him fully undressed, but of course he had gotten naked in front of Amatsu, and more than once too.

He pushed his head forward to take Amatsu’s cock in his mouth again, but the hand in his hair kept him back, yanked him away from it, and Aruto let out a low moan in protest. It didn’t even sound like his own voice.

“Why are you in such haste? You seem a bit frustrated.”

Aruto looked up. His eyes met Amatsu’s sharp jawline and then his lips, curled in a chuckle, and finally his dark eyes, in which it was impossible to tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. “I’m not,” he lied.

From the very start, it had always been like a match between them. A complicated one, made up of so many games Aruto had lost count. He only knew that Amatsu was winning for sure, that Amatsu never lost staring contests, or fights, or challenges, or takeover bids. But Aruto never gave up, he always tried his desperate best, and if anything he tried to make the other’s victory as difficult as he could. So he lied.

Amatsu stared at him for a while. Attentively, taking his time while Aruto’s blood drummed all his eagerness in his ears. Then, finally, Amatsu helped him up — or rather _pulled_ him up, because his firm ministrations couldn’t really be described as ‘help’. Once they were face to face, Amatsu took Aruto’s spit-soaked face in his hand. Their lips were so close Aruto could feel the other’s breath on his cheeks, and for a second there, he almost leaned in for a kiss. It was just a second, though.

“Undress,” Amatsu commanded. It made Aruto’s insides twist with shame, his face burn fiercely with blood, and yet his arms moved to take off the hoodie before he’d even had time to blink. After throwing it on the chair in front of the desk, he unbuttoned the trousers, too.

No sooner did Aruto pull them down than he was bent over the desk, his chest pushed against its smooth surface and one arm twisted behind his back. A lamp was knocked over in the split second that had passed between his previous position and the current one. Amatsu’s movement had been so quick and resolute Aruto had barely had time to react — not unlike their fights, it felt like the balance was definitely tipped in Amatsu’s favor. 

However, that didn’t discourage Aruto, not during their fights, nor right now. He turned his head back to meet Amatsu’s gaze and smiled — he wasn’t sure if he wanted his expression to be compliant or resolute, and it probably came off as neither, but he still plastered it on his face while he stuck his hips up, better exposing the curve of his ass.

Aruto liked seeing Gai’s eyes darken like that, his gaze melting in the warmth of a feeling he wasn’t strictly controlling. Of course, that was only lust — but Aruto considered it a small victory anyway. Maybe, one day, he would get to see another feeling, too.

Amatsu’s index and middle fingers pushed past his lips, tugged at Aruto’s smile, pushed down his tongue, reached so deep into his mouth it felt as if they wanted to touch the back of his throat. They stopped short of it, on the brink of triggering his gag reflex, and Aruto didn’t need to be told what to do. He started licking them eagerly, shivering when Amatsu’s other hand released the grip that was twisting his arm and traced the shape of his waist, instead. It settled on his hip, firmly, the thumb sliding under his underwear (at least that pair was more respectable than the colourful one he had been wearing the first time).

Aruto didn’t miss Gai’s satisfied smirk. “What a good boy you are,” Amatsu murmured, licking his full lips in what Aruto could only interpret as a composed form of anticipation. His words travelled down straight to Aruto’s still-trapped erection. He could feel it twitch in his underwear, brush against the edge of the desk. He sucked, licked and drooled even more eagerly.

When Amatsu pulled his underwear down, Aruto rocked his hips back — finding nothing at all, choking a moan on the hand he was slobbering on.

Amatsu withdrew his fingers — with their wet tips, he drew a line down Aruto’s back, following his spine, until he reached the crack of his ass. Aruto’s breath, heavy and quick already, hitched in his throat as a shiver traveled up that wet line.

“I can’t help but marvel each time at how sensitive you are, Hiden,” Amatsu commented, a vaguely amused tone the only trace of expression in his voice. He only pulled the edge of the underwear down enough to spread Aruto’s cheeks and slip one finger into the slit.

Aruto held tight to the edges of the desk, shut his eyes against the sweet burn he’d come to know well in the recent weeks, and bit his lips trying, more or less successfully, to keep his voice down. The thing was, Aruto was well aware that Gai Amatsu knew all his weaknesses, or at least most of them. That did not only include the weak points in the management of his organisation, in the security of the products they sold, or in the combat abilities of his suit — oh, not at all. Amatsu Gai knew perfectly — with unsettling, unexplainable precision — just what buttons to press to make Aruto’s body unravel like a badly knitted scarf.

Not even biting his lips until he was drawing blood could have stifled the moan Aruto let out when Amatsu’s finger curled against just the right spot. He’d gone straight for it, with barely any exploration or hesitation, and Aruto could _see_ the waves of white pleasure in front of his eyes when he shut them tight. Amatsu set a rhythm; the thrusts alternated shivers of mind-blowing pleasure to the grounding burn of his finger’s movement.

“Did I ever mention that this might be a talent of yours?” Amatsu asked, as if he didn’t know that he had, every time. Aruto’s chest still tightened each time; his body shivered and his erection twitched. “You take it so well even when it’s dry.”

“Amatsu—” Aruto moaned, hiding his burning face in the hollow of his elbow.

“It’s President Amatsu for you. Don’t forget your manners,” Amatsu scolded him, but his voice wasn’t colder than before. There was something about Gai’s composure that only made Aruto feel more aroused. It made him want to surrender any kind of control in those firm, confident hands, the same hands that were now spilling drops of cold lube between his cheeks. Aruto smiled secretly, face still hidden in his arm.

“Yes,” he said then. “Thank... thank you, President Amatsu,” he moaned as a second finger slipped in. Aruto promptly arched his back, rocking his hips against Amatsu’s hand as silently as he could, putting all the strength he had into opposing the firm hold on his waist that kept him in place.

“That’s better,” encouraged Amatsu. “What a good boy.” His voice stuck to Aruto’s ears like honey, smothering every other sound, almost suppressing any other sensation but the warmth in his loins and the jolt running from the tips of his toes to the head of his cock.

But no matter how Aruto moved his hips, no matter how he arched his back, how he stood on his tiptoes to mutely beg for more — he felt the lack of burn like an emptiness coiling in his guts, and it left him yearning, wanting, so much that not even Amatsu’s fingers curled against his sweet spot were enough.

“More,” he murmured what felt like tens of minutes later, but was barely half of one. “I want— I need more,” he pleaded, because he wanted it all, and he wanted it now.

Amatsu stopped all movements, the hand on Aruto’s hips pinning him down so firmly it would probably leave a bruise. He slipped his fingers out slowly but steadily, then cleaned the lube off by wiping it on Aruto’s left cheek. Aruto held his breath in anticipation, expecting to feel the warmth of Amatsu’s cock behind him, sliding against his entrance. He only turned to look back when that didn’t happen for what he deemed an unbearable amount of time.

Amatsu leaned down upon him, took his face between index and thumb, and rolled his hips so suddenly Aruto almost lost his footing.

“You’ll have to beg for it, Hiden,” Amatsu told him. “Beg properly and I’ll consider.”

Aruto could have even cried, if that was what President Amatsu asked of him right then.

♝♔♝

( Isamu Fuwa )

What Fuwa found on the other side of the door was beyond any expectations he could have had.

He expected to see them fighting, or at least having some sort of aggressive competition. In fact, he opened the door with his Shot Riser and Progrise Key in hand. Fuwa knew their rivalry was quite bitter, especially lately, and that President Amatsu seemed to have the upper hand (Fuwa secretly rooted for Aruto, but no one had to know). He was ready to lend President Hiden a hand if the occasion arose, but he soon understood that was not the case.

He did not find them fighting, not in any possible meaning of the word — except a very metaphorical one. Hiden, half-naked and bent face down over the sleek black desk, didn’t look distressed at all, and his closed eyes and parted lips suggested that those, coming from his throat in an increasingly louder tone, were cries of bliss. Fuwa could have sworn that wasn’t President Hiden’s voice, if he didn’t have the man right there in front of his eyes, flesh and blood. It was Aruto Hiden for sure, but it was hard to reconcile that dishevelled, dissolute version of him with the one Fuwa had gotten to know. 

Fuwa stared at President Hiden, at that _side_ of him, for what seemed like an eternity, gaze fixed on his parted lips, soft-looking, shiny with saliva, and on his flushed face, eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks, hair falling in front of his forehead. He’d never imagined Aruto could look like that.

Sure, Hiden was a handsome man (not that Fuwa had ever stopped to consider that before, of course), but that was… beyond handsome. His voice, those sounds he made, they sent a jolt up Fuwa’s nerves, paralysed him in place, and that enraptured expression of his — had Aruto’s lips always been so full? — was almost hypnotising.

The sound of the door closing behind him was sudden and inexplicably loud, and shook Fuwa out of his beguiled staring. It took his eyes away from Hiden, which meant they wandered down his body — his naked back was slim and just slightly on the muscled side and his skin looked so unbelievably smooth... and then, inevitably, Fuwa had to look at the other figure, the man standing behind Hiden and fucking him with slow movements of his hips and with a disturbingly unperturbed expression on his face. Gai Amatsu was completely dressed, only his trousers unzipped. He didn’t even have a hair out of place.

Unfortunately, as Fuwa soon noticed, he wasn’t the only one taken by surprise by the thud of the door closing.

Aruto was already turned in his direction, and his eyes fluttered open in between moans, in reaction to the sound. Fuwa almost dropped what he had in his hands, and scrambled to put both weapon and key back, so as not to look intimidating, at least. Aruto’s gaze, however, was blank as he looked right at Fuwa. It seemed as if he couldn’t see anyone — not because he was blind, or unfocused, but rather because his vision stopped a meter before reaching Fuwa’s position.

Suddenly, the veil of grey through which Fuwa had been looking at that whole scene started to make sense. President Amatsu had a holographic office, and for some reason the hologram he was using at that moment was hiding visitors from everyone inside the room. It was similar to how interrogation rooms worked: it put up a false wall to hide spectators. There was definitely something suspicious about that, and about that man in general, and Fuwa wished he had the presence of mind to give more attention to that thought — but the images in front of his eyes tore it away from his brain.

Through the holographic door, Fuwa could see the whole scene far too well for his own taste. He knew he could, and should, have left immediately. He kept telling that to himself, but his legs wouldn’t move and his eyes wouldn’t look away.

“You just couldn’t wait anymore, mh?” Amatsu said with a roll of his hips. Aruto’s moan echoed through the room, and he closed his eyes once again.

The sounds were the most obscene part of it all. They weren’t loud, in themselves, but they felt deafening: on the rhythmic background sound of Amatsu’s groin slapping against his cheeks, Aruto moaned and gasped and cried Amatsu’s name — called him ‘President’, but once or twice let a more familiar ‘Amatsu’ slip, and corrected himself right away. When Amatsu asked that question, Hiden seemed to be searching for the words, moving his lips as if to articulate an answer that got cut off by yet another thrust. “No,” he finally hiccuped, “no, I— _yes, there_ — I just...” His voice then trailed off into other indecent sounds that etched themselves into Fuwa’s brain as if they were trying to brainwash him.

Fuwa found that his heart was thumping, pumping boiling blood in his veins. He felt angry, angry that whatever game Gai Amatsu was playing, he’d walked right into it like a fool, but even more than that, angry that Aruto Hiden seemed to be several metres deeper into the same hole. He didn’t exactly _like_ the guy, but he liked Amatsu even less.

“You’re tightening up so nicely around me, Hiden,” Amatsu whispered, his voice low and even slightly hoarse, despite his dignified expression — even he could only pretend so much, the asshole. “You’ve been waiting for this for days, haven’t you?”

“It's not—” Aruto choked on his own words, groaned and furrowed his eyebrows, and Fuwa could read the sheer effort on his face — as if he was on the brink of losing control. “It's not like that.”

Amatsu didn’t react to that as Fuwa would have expected. On the contrary, it almost seemed to Fuwa as if the hint of a smirk had appeared on his face. It was hard to tell because Amatsu leaned down so that his mouth was almost touching Hiden’s ear — Aruto arched his back against him with a sharp inhale, and it made Fuwa’s blood boil so much that he felt it would dry out. “You couldn’t think of anything else but me bending you over a desk, isn’t that right, Hiden?” Amatsu’s voice was low, but not low enough that Fuwa wouldn’t hear.

The only thing Fuwa’s instinct told him to do, the only thing his strained muscles itched for, was to let out all his tension, punch that goddamned Gai Amatsu in the face until he wasn’t all that good-looking anymore. He felt his own muscles stiffen, his jaw clench, nails sinking into his palms and teeth grinding against each other. But he didn’t do a thing. Because something else, something stronger than his anger, stopped him.

“It’s— right.” Hiden bit his lips and threw his head back. Their faces were side by side and Fuwa could _feel_ the intensity of the look they exchanged from the other side of the room — it wasn’t sweet at all, but tense, like a tightly coiled spring. “Yes, you're right, President Amatsu,” whispered Aruto, and now his eyes were open and staring right into Amatsu’s and even if he blushed, he didn’t look away.

Fuwa felt like there was another spring in the room, ready to go off, and it was himself.

He would have liked to think that it was his conscience stopping him, recognising he would have been in the wrong to interrupt. He would have liked to have left the room already because it was clear there was nothing unlawful going on there — immoral, maybe; wrong, most likely; but not unlawful, no. He would have liked to think straight, and for once to be the balanced person everyone wanted him to be.

But he wasn’t. Truth be told, the trouble that he would get into for everything he had done and everything he wanted to do wasn’t enough to stop him, not even for long enough to take a deep breath. What stopped him, what held him frozen in place right then, was the thought of having to deal with President Hiden, eager and half-naked as he was. Having to face him like that and keep a straight face, and pretend his blood wasn’t stubbornly flowing down to his groin, unwelcomingly filling his underwear a bit more every time he heard Aruto’s blissful voice; having to pretend that he wasn’t thinking, he wasn’t longingly wishing to do to Aruto the same things he wanted to punch President Amatsu for.

“And about your voice,” murmured Aruto, as if in a sort of twisted parallel to Fuwa’s own thoughts. “I thought— I thought about your voice.”

“And what did I tell you?” Amatsu’s voice rang, amused and satisfied, his words clear even over the deafening sound of Fuwa’s own heartbeat. His hands caressed Aruto’s sides, then the curve of his ass, and Hiden yielded to the touch — as if his body was adapting to Amatsu’s, and it bent and flexed and curled just to welcome him, to mould itself to him.

Fuwa hated it with every fibre of his being, and yet he couldn’t take his eyes away.

“You told me that I was—” Aruto moaned as Amatsu’s lips kissed him behind his ear, and down his neck. He shivered so violently with the following thrust that even Fuwa could see it clearly. “That I was _good_...”

There was something beautifully desperate in the way Aruto was gripping the desk with both hands and moving his hips to go along with Amatsu’s movements, in pursuit of his own pleasure. Fuwa thought that, no matter how pretty Aruto might have looked like that, how electric his spark of arousal was, he would have never kept him on edge. He would have pleased him until Aruto swore he was satisfied, and maybe even after he had.

“Do you like praise that much?” teased Amatsu, instead, gripping Aruto’s face in his hand — keeping it still, turned away from him, and then sinking his nose into the hair at the back of his head. Fuwa thought that, inexpressive as he was, even Amatsu’s breath must have been cold.

Aruto did shiver, in fact. “Yes,” he said, breathlessly, “yes, I do.”

It was then that the two parted. Amatsu stood, took a step back and stopped only a moment. If Fuwa didn’t know any better, he would have said that Amatsu was admiring the view. But then again, not a muscle on his face twisted — not even the hint of a smirk appeared on it. Fuwa struggled to understand that, to come to terms with how disturbingly devoid of emotion President Amatsu had to be; he looked at the way Aruto’s shoulders heaved and fell with his every breath, looked at his flushing skin, and at his sweaty, erotic expression, and his face didn’t betray anything but a discreet smirk and a vaguely amused crooking of eyebrows.

On the other side of the room, Fuwa was having trouble breathing silently. He realised that if there was something he was truly scared of, it was having to admit how turned on he was right in that moment, how hot he thought Aruto was as he breathed heavily, frustrated and eager (it made his passionate speeches look barely heartfelt — that was how intense he looked).

A long time ago, Fuwa had sworn to himself he would never flee again. He would have laughed if someone had told him _this_ would be the one thing that would nearly make his flight instinct prevail over his fight instinct: Aruto Hiden panting heavily, bent over a desk. That was all it took, that was what he considered nearly too much. _Nearly_ , but not enough to allow him to pry his eyes away from the scene.

Amatsu held out his hand. “Come earn your praise,” he said, and Aruto didn’t even finish exhaling before he took the hand he was offered and let Amatsu drag him to the armchair behind the desk — a leather one, excessively large, on which Amatsu sat with what looked like deliberate languidness. It was as if he enjoyed making Aruto wait, in that embarrassing state he was in, so visibly frustrated it made Fuwa’s hands itch.

Aruto finished undressing, revealing toned legs, and the red lines from the pair of pants that had pressed tight against them until that moment. Fuwa blinked and tried to keep his eyes closed, but when he did, the images that flashed in front of his eyelids, conjured up by his imagination, didn’t offer him any respite. When he reopened them, Aruto was sitting astride Amatsu’s legs. From the other side of the desk, Fuwa could only see his back — his shoulders, the line of his spine, his sides, and both of Amatsu’s hands on them — and his muscles contracting as he slowly lowered himself onto Amatsu’s erection. He was quieter than earlier — as if concentrating, his breath more controlled, his whimper low and muffled when he finally stopped.

The fact that he couldn’t see everything should have made Fuwa sigh in relief, but he felt more like groaning in frustration. He had to leave, he really had to leave.

Amatsu reached for Aruto’s face. He caressed his cheek, stroked his hair back. It didn’t feel as emotionally charged as it could have, with Amatsu’s expression being no different from what it had been so far — the slight smirk that curved his lips felt fabricated as ever. “Good,” he said, “now move your hips.”

And Aruto did. Fuwa watched, he kept watching the way Aruto’s muscles tensed as he propped himself up and then lowered himself down, groaning, with his head thrown back. Fuwa couldn’t help but desire, more intensely than he’d ever wished for something like that, to be in Amatsu’s place. He _absolutely_ had to leave, he reminded himself, and yet his feet didn’t move at all, like he was under some sort of spell. He tried to swallow, but the knot in his throat didn’t go down, and it throbbed along with his crazed heartbeat.

“Like that,” encouraged Amatsu, his hands both back on Hiden’s sides, guiding him. “My good boy,” he added, and Aruto straightened his back to look down at him. If he was saying something, it was too soft for Fuwa to hear. The next time Aruto sank down, it was faster, and he slouched forward moaning with his face hidden in Amatsu’s neck. Fuwa’s fists closed tight.

“You’re a smart, well-trained puppy,” said Amatsu, stroking Aruto’s brown hair and holding him close. “Not like that police mutt back there. Am I wrong, Agent Fuwa?”

Amatsu’s malicious smile was wide, and he looked as though that single sentence had pleased him more than everything before it. His eyes looked towards Fuwa as though they could see him through the hologram — which was impossible, or at least it should have been.

For a moment there, Fuwa thought his heart would explode. When it didn’t, and his legs finally moved, it was in the wrong direction, towards the desk, the window, towards Hiden and Amatsu. The only reason why he didn’t simply punch Amatsu’s smirk in, the only reason why he stopped two steps short of the desk, was Hiden. Aruto turned his head to look behind himself, and it was his wide eyes, the shock in his expression, the sweat on his brow, the galaxy of little moles on his back, the way Amatsu’s fingers dug into it: it was all that which stopped Fuwa in his tracks once again. 

“What?” exclaimed Aruto, loudly, and his expression wasn’t simply surprised, it wasn’t just alarmed. There was something else, something Fuwa couldn’t really name, something instinctive and untamed in the back of those dark brown eyes. “Fuwa?!”

Fuwa felt his face flush, wanted to avert his eyes, and they moved from Aruto’s face but only made it as far as his flushed shoulders, as low as the curve of his back. He noticed Aruto trying to move away, and Amatsu’s hands keeping him in place. Fuwa was fuming with anger, with an intensity that he’d rarely experienced before, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands, a situation which often ended with him throwing punches. It was hard to hold back at that point, but he managed it — because the whole thing was awkward enough as it was, and because as long as he was on the other side of the desk, maybe Aruto wouldn’t notice the glaring physical reaction that was tightening his pants.

“Did someone say you could stop, Hiden?”

“Eh? But—” Aruto turned back promptly, seemingly wanting to say something. His arms rested against Amatsu’s chest, and he pulled at the clothes under his touch to attract Amatsu’s attention. But President Amatsu was looking at Fuwa, and even though his position was disadvantageous, it didn’t feel like it at all. Amatsu looked him up and down with his usual air of superiority, and mindlessly brushed Aruto’s back, as if soothing a nervous pet.

“He’s been watching for a while,” explained Amatsu, obviously talking to Aruto, but despite that, not breaking eye contact with Fuwa, not even for a moment. It felt like he didn’t need to blink. “There’s nothing you can hide now that he hasn’t been staring at for the past fifteen minutes.” Fuwa felt his stomach fall, plummet down to the ground floor a bit more with each of Amatsu’s words. He hated him, but right then what he hated even more was that Amatsu was telling the truth. “If he stayed so long, maybe it’s because he liked what he saw, wouldn’t you agree?”

Aruto didn’t make a move to agree, nor to disagree. He just stared, absolutely still, at Amatsu’s face. Maybe he didn’t want to look at Fuwa, maybe he was embarrassed, or maybe he was too scared of Amatsu to say anything; Fuwa couldn’t say, because he was too busy trying to stare at the floor to pay attention to Hiden’s face.

“Perform nicely, Hiden,” Amatsu said, voice low and slightly quivering, almost making Fuwa believe he was capable of displaying some kind of emotion, even if it was just eagerness. “You have a proper audience now.”

Fuwa was outraged to see Aruto actually comply, accept Amatsu’s authority. Wasn’t that like losing? Had Hiden given up already? Had he been forced, or manipulated, into that situation? He heard Hiden’s quiet little moans as he started moving again, and felt the anger ready to explode. At the heart of it, however, there was something else. 

Fuwa shook his head, as if trying to drive the thoughts away. He didn’t need them. "Stop,” he murmured, to the two in front of him and to his own mind. He knew that he wanted to protect Aruto, not just like he wanted to protect people in general, like he wanted to protect humanity, or the innocent. He wanted to protect that man specifically, to preserve everything about him, to prevent him from getting hurt. “Leave him alone,” he said, louder, because he didn’t need those thoughts but he would have all the time to throw them away later. “He doesn't want to." 

Finally, Fuwa raised his gaze, noticing with disgust how Amatsu’s face was devoid of any kind of shame, unlike Hiden’s. Zaia’s President was staring at his rival with a contented look, an air of victory about him.

This time, it was Fuwa being ignored, and Amatsu’s gaze focused on Aruto as if he was the only thing in the room that ever deserved his attention. "You don't want to, Aruto?" he asked, and if the shift to a first-name basis made Fuwa shudder with rage, Aruto’s tremble looked very different in nature — he still had his back turned to Fuwa, so Fuwa couldn’t see the expression on his face, but he could see how Aruto’s shoulders slumped forward and his hands ran up Amatsu’s chest. He whispered something, and he was moving still, however slowly and hesitantly, maybe following the lead Amatsu was giving with his hands.

"Answer out loud, so Agent Fuwa can hear."

Fuwa let out a sound he could probably only describe as a growl. It vibrated low in his throat and likely only had the effect of making a fool of him, but if he’d tried to keep it inside, he would have probably dug a hole into his own palm out of frustration.

Aruto still didn’t look at him. Fuwa could see he was blushing to the tips of his ears, and even his shoulders were flushed with blood (he looked warm, and Fuwa could only imagine how hot his skin would be against his own).

“Yes,” said Hiden, then let out a gasp as he sank completely into Amatsu’s lap, on bent knees. “Yes, I do.” His voice shook, breathily, and his head fell forward, his forehead leaning against Amatsu’s shoulders. He added something, whispered it, but Fuwa could barely make out the pleading tone. 

"Even right in front of your friend?" Amatsu insisted, obviously self-satisfied, as if that whole situation, that whole conversation wasn’t merely a chance to show off. And Hiden nodded, once again lifting his hips, slowly. “Show me, then,” encouraged Amatsu, with a liquid, dark light in his eyes as he looked up at Hiden’s face.

"Oh, come on, you're blackmailing him!" Fuwa burst out, aggressively, because if he’d bitten his tongue one second more he would probably have chewed through it.

And yet, when Amatsu let go of Hiden’s hips, Aruto did not go away, he didn’t stop. On the contrary, he started moving faster, as if Amatsu hadn’t been forcing him to move but restricting him so that he wouldn’t. Fuwa kept staring, shocked, as Aruto sank onto the other man’s cock, pulled himself up and then back down with an eager rhythm, making Amatsu’s length disappear inside him.

"Don’t you want him to leave?" Amatsu asked, watching Hiden with what could have even looked like admiration, if his smirk didn’t betray his malice. Aruto shook his head slightly, but he didn’t seem to pay much more attention to the question, busy as he was.

Fuwa couldn’t really seem to sort out his own feelings. It was chaos in there, and the only thing to clearly emerge from it was his anger, and that absolute sense of dismay which made the same anger turn toward himself. Why was he still standing there? Why had he even walked in? What was he hoping to achieve? Why was he even inside that building at all? He felt like a fool, a complete idiot, unworthy of any kind of respect. No wonder Aruto Hiden would prefer someone else, anyone else, even Gai Amatsu, to someone like him. Someone who’d stay there and watch him have sex with another person — and get hard while he did.

Amatsu glanced at him — Fuwa felt his gaze on himself and his own face burned even more fiercely. Their eyes didn’t meet, as Fuwa promptly avoided them, and yet the enmity between them was obvious. It was also obvious that whatever the competition entailed, Amatsu was obviously winning it.

"Maybe you enjoy the way he looks at you?” Amatsu asked Hiden, returning his lustful gaze to him. “But he looks _disgusted_ by you. As if he thinks you're a worthless slut."

“I don’t—” Fuwa attempted to deny, but his words fell unheard on Aruto’s ears, muffled by his loud moan as he started moving even faster, desperately. Even Amatsu let out a groan, hands caressing Hiden’s chest, his waist, his ass.

"I think he wants you to watch, Fuwa," he said, sounding amused, for some reason — which, judging from how little Amatsu showed his emotions, probably meant he was having the time of his life.

Fuwa could have thrown up. He felt like he could have, and maybe Amatsu deserved to have the expensive carpet of his office soiled with vomit. He held back from spitting, too, and forced himself to finally turn away, instead. "This is disgusting,” he said, “and you two are perverted deviants."

"Ga— President... Amatsu!" Hiden’s voice followed him on his way out, as he walked through the holographic door and then opened the real one. It echoed in his ears even after he shut it behind himself, and slid down to the carpeted floor. 

Fuwa held his head in his hands, taking deep breaths. His whole body trembled and shivered, and he kept seeing Aruto’s back, sprinkled with moles, and his sweaty, blissful face, as if permanently etched in his mind. The sounds from the other side of the door were low and muffled, but Fuwa couldn’t help but make them out, wet and breathy, faster, harder, and then louder, Hiden moaning as if he _wanted_ to be heard, as if he wouldn’t have cared if the whole damned company watched as he got fucked and cried Amatsu’s name.

_Disgusting_ , he thought, but the knot in his throat and the hardness in his pants plainly displayed how he was anything but disgusted.

"Fuwa seems to have quite a clear idea of what you like.” Fuwa could hear Amatsu, even through the door. Of course, that had to be intentional. “Not bad for a mutt, wouldn't you say?"

Fuwa wanted to stand up, go back inside and fight him. He really did. But then he remembered the last defeat he had suffered at Amatsu’s hand (some of his muscles still hurt from it) and realised that, _should he lose again_ , he wouldn’t have been able to bear the humiliation in front of Hiden. 

So, instead, he stood up and _finally_ walked away.

That night, and many others after it, Fuwa jerked off to Aruto Hiden. Of course, no one would ever know, least of all Hiden himself. After all, he was better off like that, believing Fuwa thought of him as a disgusting, perverted slut.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my support group (especially Nics who came up with the title) and to my patient beta (El) who isn't even into the fandom and had to listen to me rant about these three for hours. You're all great and I love you.


End file.
